


Indiana

by Blaumeise



Category: Guns N' Roses
Genre: Homophobia, Homophobic Language, M/M, Police Brutality, Racism, Racist Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:08:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25803382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blaumeise/pseuds/Blaumeise
Summary: Axl had sworn an oath that he would never visit his home town again. So when all of a sudden, he runs to catch a hitch to Lafayette, Indiana, Slash decides that it's better to not let him go on his own...
Relationships: Axl Rose/Slash | Saul Hudson
Comments: 21
Kudos: 37





	Indiana

The land was changing. They had left the mountains behind a while ago, but now the country became really flat. Farms alternated with forests and every now and then a lake, a river or a pothole would interrupt the monotony. The engine roared smoothly, country-music doodled out of the tape-player and from time to time Dean, the truck-driver, encouraged them to sing along. 

"Out in the West Texas town of El Paso, I fell in love with a Mexican girl," he bellowed out in what was not a half bad baritone. "Hey, you're not singing." He nudged his elbow into Slash's ribs, and laughed. "I challenged his right for the love of this maiden, he dived with his hand for the gun that he wore." 

"I don't know the lyrics," Slash mumbled, and cast Axl an angry glance. Fuck, Axl could sing along to keep Dean happy, it was definitely not too much to ask. Instead, he was huddled against the door, dull eyes focused on corn and tobacco plants. 

"Doesn't matter, sing la-la-la." 

Axl wasn't inclined to sing la-la-la. He stared out of the window, as if Slash and his predicament weren't even in the same stuffy driver's cabin with him. 

"Back in El Paso my life would be worthless, everything's gone, in life nothing is left." 

Slash mumbled something under his breath that might have been similar to la-la-la, but not similar enough for Dean. 

"I picked you up to have a bit of entertainment, guys," he said and his face obtained an unhappy expression. "If you don't want to sing, at least talk a bit. How are the girls in L.A?" 

"Cool," Slash said, and cast another helpless look at Axl. No, Axl wasn't inclined to talk either. Normally Axl would talk everybody’s ear off, but now that it mattered? Fat chance. He had become more and more quiet during the last 1500 miles. Dean was a stroke of luck. He had offered to take them all of the remaining 500 miles, but if they came across as boring, or worse, weird, they would soon find themselves back on the road, running after the next hitch. 

Dean sighed, then chuckled and slapped Slash's thigh once with his shovel-sized hand. 

"You're a strange couple,” he said. “Candy?" He fished a battered Mars-bar out of his pocket, and handed it over. 

"Sure." Slash peeled foil from molten chocolate and bit off the top before offering the rest to Axl. "Hey man," he said softly. "Food. For free." 

Axl looked up, shook his head and returned to staring out of the window. 

"Poor kid," Dean said, and for a moment his eyes rested on the back of Axl's head. "It's good that you're going with him." 

"Yeah," Slash said. He shifted a bit and wondered if Axl was listening at all. 

"Sad thing, a funeral. Was the same when my old Uncle Barney died. Was crying like a little kid." He laughed. "Big ole me, sitting there and bawling like a baby. Wouldn't guess, would you?" 

"No." 

"Nah, wouldn't. But I'm a big ole softy at heart, you know. So, yeah, it’s OK. Don't feel bad for being sad, you know. Shows that you're a good kid." He reached around Slash's shoulder and patted Axl's head. Axl flinched and turned, casting a dark glance at Dean before he shifted closer to the door. 

"Loved you uncle, didya? Sure you do, travelling all the way from California jus' for the funeral. I'm sure he'd appreciate it." 

Slash devoted himself to the candy-bar. He licked liquid chocolate out of the wrapper while caramel was sticking to his teeth. The sugar made him thirsty, but he didn't want to ask for something to drink. He would wait till the next truck-stop and drink water from the taps. 

"'n you?" Dean continued while the truck crashed through yet another pothole. "You from Indiana, too?" 

"No." Slash grinned. "I'm from L.A." 

"A native Californian, huh? Yeah, you just look that type." 

"Yep," he agreed, and couldn't help but feel a little bit proud. He had worked hard on picking up the local habits, on not looking or sounding like a transatlantic-transplant, and it still made him happy when somebody referred to him as a local. 

Dean turned the volume a bit down and cast another sorrowful glance at Axl. Maybe he thought loud music was impious when you were dealing with a mourning passenger. 

"Bet your Mom is gonna be glad to see you," he said in an extra cheerful voice. "'s hard for Moms when the kids leave home. My oldest turns 18 in the fall, and he's gonna start service in October." 

"Yeah?" Slash asked in another feeble attempt to engage in the conversation. 

"Air-force," Dean said proudly. "Well, he hopes. It’s basic training first. But my Peg's not happy about it." He chuckled. "First chick to leave the nest, you know? Would think she's got her hands full dealing with the other three, but, no. Any siblings, Axl? I bet your Mom’s got your favourite dish ready when you're coming home; and cake, fresh out of the oven. My Mom was like that. Before I married, that was. When I came home from a tour, she'd have a huge pile of meatballs and peanut brittles ready for me. My Peg's a great cook, but Mom's meatballs were the best." He tried to reach out for Axl again, but ended patting Slash's thigh instead. 

Slash didn't mind acting as buffer. Axl was unpredictable, he might bite if Dean didn't learn to keep his hands to himself. 

"He's really distraught, ain't he?" Dean whispered as if Axl wouldn't hear them if he lowered his voice enough. "This uncle… it came suddenly, huh?" 

"Yeah," Slash said, when in fact he had no idea whether Great-uncle Sidney had been hit by a heavenly stroke or been wasting away for a decade. Axl wouldn't tell. Neither would he explain why it was so important to attend Uncle Sid's funeral, that he gave up his resolution to never visit his hometown again, had dumped a few t-shirts in a bag, and had left without another word. 

Maybe Izzy knew a bit more, but Izzy had gotten lost in L.A.'s party-scene. Slash had asked Duff to search for Izzy, grabbed a few spare clothes and had followed Axl to the bus-station. It had been hardly more than a gut-feeling, but something told him that Axl shouldn't be left alone. 

"Good that you're going with him," Dean mumbled. "Nothing better than a friend at your side when life's getting rough." He seemed to have grown fond of Slash's thigh because now he gave it a good, hard squeeze. "Friends and family, Axl," he yelled and Slash jumped in his seat. "You're lucky you've got both. But I bet you know that, hm?" 

Axl didn't move, but Slash could see his shoulders tense more and more. He looked like he was short of crawling out of his skin. 

"Dude, can we listen to some more of that music?" he asked in an attempt to direct Dean's affection onto less explosive terrain. To distract him from Axl, he was willing to suffer through another forty minutes of country-music. 

"Sure," Dean said. "You know good music when you hear it, huh?" 

"Yeah." Slash grinned. "I do." 

"Reach over, under the dashboard. Between the maps there's more tapes." 

Slash crammed roadmaps and candy-wrappers to the side and fished a tape-case out of the stack. Without granting it a second look, he shoved the tape into the player. Whatever it was, it was horrible anyway. 

"Ah, you love them sweet, don't you?" Dean laughed, when Tammy Wynette sounded out of the speakers. 

"Sometimes it's hard to be a woman," he sang with her. "Giving all your love to just one man." 

"It's rare, you know. A boy like you liking good music. I thought you black guys only listen to jazz and blues, or rock 'n' roll. 's good to see that some of you have better taste." 

"Stand by your man," Dean roared. "And tell the world you love him. Keep giving all the love you can." 

This time Slash jumped when the hand came down on his knee. He was used to people being unsure around him, trying to put him into the right drawer and finding none that suited, but this was the second time in just a few hours that he had been actually referred to as "black". 

"Fuck," he had heard a guy say at the last truck-stop, "now they have to disinfect the complete stall after the nigger has used it." 

He cast a wary look at Dean, who kept humming a duet with Tammy, tapping the rhythm onto the steering-wheel. The off-handness of the remark and the confidence with which it had been made had startled him. In L.A. he was mixed-raced and, depending on the surroundings, perceived as more black or more white. Dealing with the confusion it produced was irritating enough, but within the last three days, the white part of his heritage had been completely erased. A thousand miles had been enough to make him fully, one hundred percent, black. 

The sun was setting when they stopped for the night. Slash climbed out of the truck and shivered as cool air hit his naked arms. The day had been hot and in the warm driver's cabin he hadn't noticed the drop in temperature. Axl stood next to the hood, a little frown between his eyebrows. He pulled his jeans-jacket tighter and hugged himself. 

Slash felt his belly rumble and sighed. After the candy-bar his stomach demanded something with more substance, but whatever money they had, had hardly covered the bus-ticket for the first 500 miles. Hopefully there would be food at the funeral, maybe even enough that they could pack something for the journey back. 

"Come on, boys," Dean said, and put one arm around Slash and the other around Axl. Axl made a quick step to the side, but Dean caught him with his giant-hand and herded them towards the diner. "Mary-Jane makes the best cheeseburgers along the whole I 40. So make me happy and let me buy you dinner, OK?" 

Axl managed to escape after a few steps, and Dean released Slash with a final slap onto his shoulder. He was going to have bruises if Dean kept this behaviour up. 

They entered the little restaurant and found a place at a square plastic-table. Axl immediately pressed his nose against the laminated menu as if he had to hide his face because it was plastered across the country on "wanted" posters. 

"It's good if he's eating," Dean whispered into Slash's ear. "Skinny as he is. Doesn't bring his uncle back if he starves himself to death." 

"No," Slash said and sorted through the tiny ketchup- and mustard-bags. 

"Clare," Dean said, when a middle-aged waitress in a plain dress asked for their orders. "How are you doing tonight?" 

"Dean," she laughed and wiped a strand of greying hair back. "I didn't notice it's you." She looked warily at Slash and Axl. "Who are you bringing?" 

"My cousin's son Axl," Dean said, "and his friend Slash." He squeezed their shoulders once more. 

Axl's head rose from the menu and for a second his mouth gaped open. 

"They're coming back home for a few days, and I promised to bring them to Indiana all safe and sound. They're all keen on trying Mary-Jane's cheeseburger with extra-fries and extra-salad." 

Clare's face cleared up and she scribbled something onto her notepad. "Ready in a few," she said, but when her eyes stumbled across Slash's tattoos, her smile wavered. Maybe the sleeveless shirt hadn't been such a good idea. At least Axl's tattoos were hidden under flannel.

"She doesn't like hitchhikers," Dean said. "She thinks it's dangerous and so I told her we were related." 

"Yeah," Slash said, and grinned. Axl still looked scandalized, as if Dean had introduced him as his catamite rather than his distant cousin. 

"And now, boys, excuse me, I have to say 'hallo' to Mary-Jane. She would be offended if I didn't." 

"This guy is creepy," Axl said as soon as they were alone. 

"He's just trying to be nice." 

"Creepy," Axl insisted. "The way he keeps touching us." He shuddered. "And you let him grope you all the time. As if you liked it." 

"Fuck you." Slash felt the first tingles of irritation. So far, he had been patient with Axl, had thought that maybe he was really mourning because of this uncle, but even he had his limits. "Drop that fucking attitude of yours, OK? He's gonna drive us all the way to Lafayette. If you want to be there in time for the funeral, we can't take a hundred miles here and a hundred miles there. So be happy that Dean's gonna take us the last 500 in one piece and even buys us dinner. He's just being kind." 

"And why’s that?" Axl cast a gloomy look over to the kitchen. "What does he want?" 

"What do you mean, what does he want?" Slash sat back when Clare came over, balancing their plates on outstretched arms. He sighed at the view of a wheel-sized cheeseburger buried under fries. 

"Enjoy your meal," she said when she returned with a couple of soda-cans. This time she smiled at Slash, and then her eyes settled on Axl with motherly concern. 

"I'm sorry to hear about your loss," she said. Slash noticed that Axl's plate was even filled higher than his own, and Clare turned it around a little as if to present the burger from its best side. "Have courage," she whispered and touched his arm before she left them to their food. 

"See?" Axl said. "Creepy. Nobody buys you food like this without expecting something in exchange." He ripped a bag of ketchup open and squeezed its content over his fries. 

"And what do you think he wants?" Slash reached for the burger. Thin filaments of molten cheese had glued it firmly to its place and when he picked it up, grease dripped down from his fingers. "Do you think he'll attack you in the middle of the night?" 

Axl gave him a dubious look, and Slash snorted around a mouthful of meat. 

"I hate to inform you, Axl, but not everybody's after your sweet little ass. I bet the only one having to fear for her virtue tonight is this Mary-Sue." 

"Mary-Jane," Axl corrected. He picked up a fry and licked ketchup of its tip. 

"And anyway, we're two." 

"What if he's got a gun?" Axl's hunger was obviously bigger than his antipathy and he started to wolf down his food like he hadn't eaten in a week. 

For a moment Slash felt something like unease. 

"Nah," he said then and shovelled a forkful of salad into his mouth. "He's harmless." 

"Yeah right," Axl said. "And every murderer has a huge, fat 'M' tattooed onto his forehead." 

They had to stop their discussion because Dean returned from the kitchen. Either he was afraid that his dinner might get cold or Mary-Jane had chucked him out. 

"Good, huh?" he asked and tackled his own food. 

Slash nodded, but his eyes were on Axl whose hunger seemed already stilled. 

"Tell you what? You can sleep in my room tonight. I can't leave you in the truck. Not that I'm afraid that you'll make away with it," he added with a laugh. "but if the boss finds out about it, there'd be hell to pay." 

Axl had picked up his fork, but now he just put it down again. 

_I told you so_ his eyes said as loud and clear as if he'd actually screamed. 

Slash shrugged. What could happen? Worst case Dean would make a pass at one of them, get his fingers slapped and they were out on the road again. He still didn't believe him to be an axe-murderer. 

+++

Nothing happened. They slept both on the floor, huddled together under the spare-blanket while Dean snored loud and sated through the night. At the crack of dawn, Slash woke up to a hand on his shoulder and the whispered advice to hurry up and get coffee before they left. 

They didn't only get coffee, but also toast, pancakes and scrambled eggs. Slash felt almost sick at the smell of old chip fat this early in the morning, but experience had taught him to eat when food was at hand. So he ate as much as he could stomach while Axl, pale and unhealthy looking, nurtured a mug of black coffee. He didn't even finish half of it by the time they had to leave. 

Dean was less talkative this early in the morning. The tape-player hummed softly while Slash tried to find a comfortable position for his head. Axl, the lucky bastard, was lying against the door, head cushioned by his crumpled jacket. His eyes were closed and his short lashes did their best to cast a weak shadow onto his pale cheeks. His forehead was smooth for once, not furrowed by anger, his brows not pulled together and his eyes not narrowed in annoyance. Messy hair hung into his face and a strand had found its way through slightly parted lips into his mouth. Slash brushed it away and Axl made a small, distressed sound when fingers grazed over his skin. 

"Why don't you try and get some sleep, too?" Dean asked when Slash's head dropped forward for the third time in ten minutes. "Back there." He pointed over his shoulder. "Just climb over and put your head down for a few." 

Slash looked at Axl and nodded. He only hoped Axl wouldn't start screaming when he found himself alone with Dean. 

+++

They reached Lafayette in the early afternoon. "Nothing to speak of," Izzy had said and Slash could only agree. Dean didn't drive into the town-centre, but dropped them at a bus-station instead. 

"Be nice to your Mom," he said and slapped their shoulders a last time. 

Slash waved as he drove off, but Axl only stood and stared like he had never seen his hometown before. 

"What now?" Slash asked, and shouldered his bag. 

Axl shrugged. 

"Are we gonna stay with your folks?" 

No. Axl's look of undisguised horror was enough of a confirmation. "Do you know anybody who might let us crash?" 

Axl shrugged again. Then he picked up his own bag and walked down the road. Slash just followed. What else could he do? He quickened his pace and caught up to Axl who now seemed to have a destination. He walked with more determination, like he was sure about where to go. 

Slash didn't pay much attention to his surroundings. He caught glimpses of a few shop-windows, food, clothes, household-stuff, a supermarket, now and then a restaurant or a bar. Eventually the little shops vanished and the roads were lined with shady apartment-houses, garbage lay on the pavement and the diners looked cheap and dirty. 

"Hey!" 

He turned his head when somebody honked from behind. 

"Hey, girl! Are you OK? Is he bothering you?" 

A police-car had slowed down behind them until it was abreast of them. One of the cops leant out of the window and gave him a disparaging once-over. Slash's thoughts stumbled across each other, but he was reasonably sure that he wasn’t carrying anything illegal and was almost equally convinced that Axl's pockets were clean, too. They weren't drunk, they hadn't stolen anything, there was nothing they could pin on them. 

Slash stuffed his hands into his pockets and concentrated on hiding his nervousness. He just kept walking, eyes firmly down a few steps in front of him. 

"Hey, girl, I'm talking to you!" the cop shouted, and the other one hit the horn again. "Is he bothering you? Or are you messing around with niggers because you like it so much?” 

Slash didn't look up. They were getting irritated by the lack of reaction, but they had reached a point where any reaction would be the wrong one. Although he could hardly see through the curtain of hair in front of his face, he felt Axl tense next to him, could hear it in the way the rhythm of his steps changed. He wouldn't have been surprised if the air around him had sizzled with electricity. 

"Maybe she likes them," the other cop said loud enough for Slash to hear him through the open window. "Tell me, what does he have that a white boy can’t give you, huh? Give me your phone number and I promise, I’ll make sure you’ll never yearn for black dick ever again.” 

"You really get off on that, don't you?" Axl had turned on his heels. 

"Axl," Slash said softly, but he had the sick feeling that Axl was already beyond reach. 

"Jesus, look at him, Jim," the first one said. "It's a guy!" 

The car stopped, and Slash took his hands out of his pockets when the cops got out. 

"They're a couple of fags." 

"Who's the fag here?" Axl yelled. "Tell me, who was just fantasizing about fucking me, huh?" 

"Axl," Slash said again and reached for Axl's wrist. This wasn't the place where he was keen on finding himself in prison, especially not together with Bill Bailey and his mile-wide police-record. 

They were standing hardly a foot away from each other now. One of the cops pulled out an expanding baton, but Axl didn't flinch. 

"You get so off on this, don't you? Wearing your neat little uniforms makes you feel all strong and powerful, huh? Does Mommy iron them in the evening for you? You know what? I bet you do it to each other all the time, don't ya? And then you go home and fuck your little sister. Or do you leave her to daddy?" 

"OK, that's it," one of the cops said. "You're arrested." 

He reached for Axl's arm, but Axl pulled back and lifted a hand as if to hit him. They were both all over him within a second and Slash couldn't just stand by and watch how they beat him to the ground. When he saw one of the cops lift his baton, he reached for his arm and forced it back. He struggled to keep from being hit, when a gun was suddenly thrust into his face. 

"Over there," the cop growled. "One wrong move, and I blow your brains out." 

Slash raised his hands a little and made a step backwards. 

"On the ground, hands over your head, legs apart. One twitch and you're gone." 

Slash believed him. He lowered himself slowly to the pavement, hands outstretched and open. He caught a glimpse of Axl who lay curled up on the ground, trying to protect his head against the blows that rained down on him. 

A knee hit the small of his back and his head was pushed down onto the asphalt. Slash didn't resist when the cop seized his wrists, pulled them backwards and cuffed them together. He still remembered the feel of the gun barrel pressing against his head, and it was enough to keep him from trying anything stupid. Hands roamed over his body, slipped under his t-shirt and dipped into his waistband, before they patted down his legs. 

"Get up." 

The pull on the chain between his wrists and the strain it produced on his shoulders brought Slash faster to his feet than he had thought possible. 

"Get in." 

His head was forced down and a rough shove send him forward into the back of the car. Axl followed only minutes later. 

"You OK?" Slash mouthed, but Axl only stared full of hatred at the two cops in front of them. His lips were bleeding and he would sport a few very colourful bruises come morning. 

Neither of them said a word during the ride. At the police-station they were separated from each other, and Slash found himself in a small, windowless room. He was still in handcuffs. His shoulders started to cramp and his head hurt where it had hit the asphalt. 

He jumped when the door was opened and two other cops entered. They didn't bother to introduce themselves, but had the decency to remove the cuffs. 

"Now, you're not from here," one of them said and dropped Slash's ID onto the table, "so listen closely, all right?" 

Slash nodded. 

"We don't want the likes of you in our town, understood? People coming into our county and making nothing but trouble. Maybe that's the way they do it in L.A., but down here we have other standards. Now, do you have any drugs on you? Or anything else you want to tell us?" 

Slash shook his head. 

"You're sure?" 

He nodded. 

"OK, strip." 

Slowly Slash started to undress. It wasn't the first time, and he knew the procedure. He handed each piece of clothing over and one of the cops went through the pockets and patted along the seams. 

"Open your mouth." 

They pushed the flashlight almost down his throat, then two gloved fingers prodded around in his mouth and under his tongue until he started to salivate. 

"OK, now over there." 

Slash looked at the table and hesitated. 

"Do you need a written invitation? 'cause you can get one." 

He shook his head and obeyed. 

"Over the table. Legs apart." 

Slash closed his eyes. A hand patted his ass, he heard latex snap and then something blunt penetrated his anus. 

"Well, he's clearly used to it." The cop behind him chuckled while he probed deeper. 

"I'd even say he likes it," the other one said. "Look. You're doing him a favour." 

Slash tensed and hissed when a jolt of pain shot up his ass. The cop behind him laughed softly. 

"Quiet, boy," he said and pressed a hand between his shoulder-blades. "Hold still and it won't hurt." 

Slash unclenched his muscles and took a deep breath to relax. He knew they weren't out to hurt him. Not much. This was about humiliation and no way in hell would he let them see that they were successful. The pain eased a bit and the hand slid down to the small of his back. 

"Enjoying yourself, huh? Yeah, you are." The finger moved up and down his ass a few times before it was pulled out. "You're not here for the fun of it. Get dressed." 

Slash stood up and tried to keep his wobbly knees straight. He put his clothes back on, and meekly followed when he was led into a cell that already accommodated another man. 

"Hi," he said and sat down on the free bunk. 

His fellow inmate lifted his head for a moment, but didn't seem to think a second look was justified. Slash was happy to leave it at that. 

He wondered what they were doing to Axl and only hoped he wasn't committing any more stupidities. After a while the shock that had kept him pliant wore off and was replaced by anger. It was all Axl's fault. Again. Why couldn't he just let it go? Nothing would have happened, nothing at all. A bunch of cops amusing themselves by picking on outsiders; would he never get used to it? 

The hours passed without incident, except for a third man who joined them in their misery. 

"That's my bed," he said, and Slash left it to him without any further discussion. 

He climbed up and lay down on one of the upper bunks. He listened to the clanking of keys, the sound of heavy boots and now and then a shrill laugh from one of the other cells. How long would they keep him? Didn't he have a free call? But whom should he call anyway? His grandma? His parents? He wasn't that far down yet.

It was around noon on the next day, when they fetched Slash out of his cell. An officer told him to check his belongings and sign a couple of forms. Then he told him in unambiguous words, that he would be well served to get on the next bus back to where he had been coming from. 

"Anything you're waiting for?" he asked, when Slash didn't make a move to leave. 

"What about… Bill," he said. It was strange to use that name. Axl was Axl to him, always had been and to call him by any other name was plain wrong. 

The officer squashed a fly on the table before he turned bored eyes on him. Slash's heartbeat quickened. What if they planned to incarcerate Axl for longer? Could they do it? Just like that? And for how long? Weeks, months, years? What would become of Guns without Axl? 

"Look, boy," the cop said. "You have two options. You can go that way," he pointed towards the exit, "or that way." His thumb hinted over his shoulder back to the cells. "Which one is it?" 

"That one," Slash said quickly and nodded towards the exit. 

"Then I'd suggest you do that. Now." 

Slash picked up his bag and headed for the exit. Maybe he could get enough cash to call somebody. Anybody. Or should he just hitchhike back to L.A. and get Izzy? All of this should have been Izzy's job right from the beginning. Maybe he could find Izzy's family, somehow, and they would help him. It was his only chance. A phonebook. He needed a phonebook to find their address and then… 

Slash blinked into the sunlight and almost dropped his bag. Yes, that was Axl sitting at the bus-stop just across the police-department. His heart made a happy leap and without looking left or right he ran across the street. Tires screeched and somebody honked angrily. 

"I was afraid they wouldn't let you go," Axl said and stood up. "You OK?" 

Slash nodded "Yeah, man, you?" 

"Sure." Axl shouldered his bag. He didn't look OK. There was a dark bruise on his cheekbone and his lower lip was stitched up. Slash wanted to hug him, but wasn't sure Axl would tolerate it. Sometimes he did, mostly not. So he just stood and stared until Axl turned his head to the side and told him to follow. 

They walked quietly down the street and Slash wasn't sure what would be a sensible thing to do. Finding a hitch back was probably the best solution. 

"I'm sorry we missed the funeral," he said after a while. 

Axl shrugged. "I didn't come because of the funeral." 

"You didn't?" Slash's steps faltered for a second. 

"No." 

"But…" 

"It's the house, OK? I wanted to see it one last time before they sell it. Because I'm sure they'll sell it. Nobody needs it anymore." 

"Oh." Slash couldn't say that he really understood, but there was a slim chance that Axl would elaborate on it later. Sometimes Axl discussed things to death and beyond, and sometimes they had to drag every single word out of his nose. And sometimes Slash couldn't help the feeling that Axl's ranting was just his way to not talk about uncomfortable thoughts and feelings, and instead tire everybody out until they stopped nagging. 

Uncle Sid's house was just outside the town, a plain, neglected wood-building on an equally neglected piece of property. Axl opened a fence-door, which nearly fell out of its hinges. They walked over the grassy path, past the "For Sale" sign, and climbed the few steps up to the porch. 

"Locked," Slash said after he'd turned the doorknob. "Maybe there's an open window." 

"Or maybe not." Axl jumped down the steps and Slash followed him through knee-high grass around the house and into the backyard. Broken tools lay around between wild flowers and shrubbery, a few car-tires and assorted rubbish. Axl walked over to an old, arthritic-looking tree and took a little birdhouse off a sturdy branch. 

"We can just use the key, you know," he said and held it up. 

Slash laughed. "Cool idea." 

"He kept it there for me. It's for the backdoor. Over there." 

They opened the door, pushed the half-rotten fly-screen out of the way, and entered the kitchen. The house looked hardly better from the inside than it had from the outside. Everything was old and a bit dirty and the smell typical for old people lingered above everything. The living-room was stuffed with furniture, a couch covered with embroidered cushions, frilly curtains and dusty shelves full of figurines and pictures. 

"He didn't change anything after Aunt Marge's death," Axl said. "That must have been almost fifteen years ago." 

"Did they have kids?" Slash picked a framed photo off a shelf and wiped the dust away from the glass. An elderly man held an earnest looking five or six-year-old boy in his lap, and pointed at the camera with a wide grin. 

"That's me," Axl said. He took the picture out of Slash's hands and put it carefully back into its place. 

"You?" Slash had another look, this time without touching the picture. The child looked nothing like Axl, it seemed so… normal. 

Axl didn't answer. He walked through the room as if it was a museum; a museum with creaking floorboards and dust dancing in the sunlight; a place where the time had been frozen and where it was still 1970. 

Slash wondered if it was OK to sit down on the couch, but decided against it. Instead he returned to the kitchen and searched the cupboards for food. He found a box of stale crackers and several cans of soup and to his satisfaction the gas-stove was still working. Cold soup was OK if there was nothing else to eat, but hot soup was even better. 

"Axl?" When Slash returned to the living-room, he found it deserted. He walked through the corridor and looked into the other rooms. "Axl?" 

"Up here." 

There was a ladder at the end of the corridor, leading to an open trapdoor in the ceiling. He climbed up and reached the attic, a crude, small room with a mattress and a blanket under the pitched roof. A couple of posters were pinned to the walls, Aerosmith, Led Zeppelin, Queen, but apart from that, the room was more or less barren. 

Slash sat down in a corner and picked through a stack of books, Tom Sawyer, Slaughterhouse Five, Serial Killers of the United States. 

"This was my room," Axl said needlessly. "Sometimes I would sneak out and stay here. Or when I couldn't go home for some reason. So eventually Uncle Sid gave me this room." He opened the skylight and looked down into the garden. 

"Let's go down," he said after a while without looking at Slash. "Maybe there's something to eat in the kitchen." 

"Soup," Slash said and stood up. "How long… I mean… how long do you want to stay?" 

Axl shrugged. "Makes no sense leaving before tomorrow, does it?" 

"What if somebody finds us here?" 

Axl shrugged again. "This is as much my house as theirs. I'd even say, it's more my house. I've spent more time here than any of them." 

Slash wasn't so sure that the cops would take that as a valid argument, but saved his breath. Sleeping at the bus-station wasn't any better, especially not if you didn't even have the fare. He wasn’t keen on being picked up for loitering next. 

They opened a few windows, but spent the day inside. Slash mainly watched while Axl went through cupboards and drawers, flipped through photo albums and sorted through lots of other stuff. He pocketed a few things, several dog-eared pictures and an old pocketknife. Slash didn't ask questions. Whatever Axl did here, it was important enough to hitchhike all the way from L.A and spend a night in jail. So he waited and patiently listened when Axl would now and then drop a few words about one of the items he'd found. 

They ate more soup in the evening, but when the sun set, they didn't dare to turn on the lights. Somebody might notice them and think of burglars or tramps. 

"We're gonna sleep upstairs," Axl said as if there had ever been any doubt. 

It was hardly ten, but Slash didn't mind to call it an early night. The sun had been shining onto the roof all day and the little room was warm enough to bake bread on the floor. Axl pushed the window wide open and stared into the sky. He looked almost eerie in the moonlight, a pale shadow against the dark walls, vulnerable and lonely. 

Slash stepped up behind him and after a brief hesitation, laid his hands onto his shoulders. Axl tensed, but didn't shake him off. After a few seconds he started to relax. 

"What's wrong," Slash asked, keeping his voice low and soft. "There's more than just mourning, right?" 

"My first time," Axl said and his voice was rough and deep down in his throat, "was up here in this room." He leant back until their bodies touched, and surprised, Slash shifted to let his hands slip down and around Axl's waist. "It was a night just like this, hot and a bit humid, one of those nights where the thinnest piece of cloth on your skin is too much." 

"Who was she?" Slash rested his chin on Axl's shoulders. 

"Somebody I knew from school." Axl's fingers brushed against Slash's, then jerked away as if burned, before they settled over the hands on his stomach. "We were up here together now and then, Uncle Sid wouldn't mind. And one night it just happened." 

Slash smelled faint traces of sweat on Axl's skin and before he knew what he was doing, his tongue darted out and swept over his neck. Axl sighed. He tipped his head to the side, exposing himself in a way that was close to surrender. 

"Was she good?" Slash peeled the shirt-collar away and nibbled at the tender spot between neck and shoulder. 

"Yes," Axl whispered, his voice barely louder than the crickets in the high grass. He pressed backwards until he had to feel the hard-on trapped between their bodies. 

Slash reached around and felt for buttons. They slipped easily out of their well-worn holes and when he pulled the shirt off Axl's shoulders, he shuddered under his hands. 

"Tell me." Slash wiped red hair away and kissed white skin. "What did she do with you?" 

"She…," Axl hesitated, and Slash pulled him flush against his chest. He moved his hips and gave him a feel of what was waiting for him, then put his hands flat over his belly and licked along his jaw. Axl tasted sweet and salty and like something he wanted to savour for the rest of his life. 

"She had more experience than I had." 

Slash's fingers stumbled over the waistband and he worked another set of buttons out of their holes. 

"She knew what she was doing." 

His fingers tightened around Axl's waist and he felt the lump in his side even before he heard the subdued groan. 

"I'm sorry," he said and tried to pull back, but Axl caught his hands and held him in place. 

"No," he said. "It's OK. It was just like this that night. Everything was like this. Even the bruises. Don't stop. Please." 

Slash swallowed and turned Axl around. 

"Look at me," he whispered and tilted Axl's chin upwards until their eyes locked. "I'm no chick." 

"No," Axl said. Slash touched his bruised cheek and he leaned into the hand without flinching. 

"Does it hurt?" 

"Yes." Axl's tongue swept over his wrist. "A little. Just the way I want it." 

Slash went to his knees and on his way down he kissed each of the dark blotches that disfigured the pale skin. Axl shivered, but he held still, and when Slash pulled his pants down, he stepped out of them without the slightest hesitation. 

Axl's hands combed through his hair while he knelt on the floor, caressed his face as if he was something breakable, something that needed to be handled with care. Axl looked down at him, eyes wide and vulnerable and almost dark in the dim moonlight. Thin hair fell over his shoulders, crumpled silk on a surface of ivory. Single strands moved in the barely tangible breeze that came through the open window. 

Axl was hard before Slash took him into his mouth and as soon as he tasted the first drops of precum, he wondered what he was doing here, on his knees, with Axl's cock in his mouth. He tried to let his hair fall forward, but Axl kept wiping it out of his face. He wanted to see him, see his lips close around his cock, see his throat work and so Slash closed his eyes because _he_ didn't want to see it , neither the white, almost translucent skin of Axl's belly nor the fine-boned hands that brushed against his jaw and closed around his head to make him take the cock just a little bit deeper. 

"Stop," Axl whispered suddenly, just when Slash had started to feel like there should be a cock in his mouth, like it just belonged there and like he didn't want to live anymore without the slow, even rhythm of something gliding over his tongue. "I'll come if you don't stop." 

Slash looked up and opened his mouth when Axl pulled out, slowly, as if giving him time to get used to the loss. Axl crouched down in front of him and pushed his hands under Slash's T-shirt. They both knew what was coming, but Slash made no move to help, just left it to Axl to undress him. He wondered if he had done it like this with his girl back then, a million years ago, or whether he had been too shy to participate, leaving it to her to do all the work. 

"Stand up," Axl said and pulled his jeans off while he came to his feet. 

Slash wondered why they kept their voices down to a point where they could barely understand each other. Somehow, he was afraid that one loud word might be enough to disturb the unreal atmosphere, the feeling of doing something important, almost sacred, and turn them into nothing but two kids groping each other in the dark. 

"Come." Axl took his hand and led him over to the mattress. "I want to do it right." 

"Right?" Slash asked and this time he was the one who shivered. 

"Yes," Axl said, and guided him down until he was lying flat on his back. He straddled him, then hovered over him on hands and knees. "I'll be careful. I promise." 

"OK," Slash said and swallowed against his dried-out mouth. When Axl bent down and kissed him he could feel the uneven texture of his stitched lip, rough and broken and he wondered if the kiss hurt him. When had Axl taken over? How? And why hadn't he even noticed when it had happened? 

Axl smiled at him and wiped once more a cascade of curls back when Slash hadn't even noticed that they had fallen into his face. 

"Don't hide from me," he said. "There's no need." 

"Do you…," Slash tried again to wet his mouth, "do you have something?" 

"I bet it's still here." His weight shifted as he felt around behind the mattress. "Here it is." 

"Lube?" Slash asked. Why was there lube in Axl’s childhood refuge?

Axl nodded. "I want to make it good for you," he whispered, his lips brushing against Slash's ear. "As good as it was for me." 

Something didn't ring right about the statement, but Slash forgot all about it when Axl kissed him again. He opened his mouth in surrender and within seconds he had forgotten about his doubts, forgotten that he had once thought he would be the one on top, or that Axl would be as vulnerable and submissive as he had appeared in the moonlight under the window. 

There was nothing submissive about Axl. Instead he guided him along with sure hands, nipped at his collarbone, tugged at his nipples and licked down a trail from his chest to his belly. 

He moaned when Axl sneaked one hand under his balls and closed the other one around his cock. At the slightest nudge, he spread his legs, and if it hadn't been for the cool gel on his hot skin, he doubted he would have noticed it when Axl pushed two slick fingers up his ass. 

"Hush," Axl whispered, and pulled back when he bucked to get the fingers in deeper. "We aren't there yet." 

Slash closed his eyes and felt a hand on his stomach, rubbing softly over tense muscles while the fingers moved in and out, first painfully slow, then in a more gratifying rhythm. 

"'s good?" 

"Yeah," Slash groaned, and tried again to determine the depth of the penetration. 

Axl chuckled and pulled back. 

"So eager," he whispered. "I had no idea." 

_Me neither_ Slash thought and stopped all futile attempts at gaining control. All he could do was leave himself to Axl. 

Axl reassumed his internal and external massage and Slash slipped into a state between arousal and relaxation. His cock was hard, but at the same time he felt oddly at peace. He could spend the rest of his life on this stained mattress while Axl worked his magic, but again Axl had different plans. 

"Open up for me," he whispered, and Slash spread his legs a bit more. 

For a moment, he felt empty, but the loss lasted only a second and then Slash gasped and tensed while Axl eased himself into his body. 

"Relax," he whispered and kissed his chest before he pushed the last inches in. "There, that's better, isn't it?" 

Slash opened his mouth to say something, but Axl's tongue silenced him, and so he just submitted while Axl re-established the same relaxing rhythm he had used before. 

"You know what's good for you, don't you?" Axl whispered and released his mouth. He quickened his pace a little, just enough for Slash to be startled out of the comfortable calmness that had settled over him. It reminded him that they weren't done yet. 

He gasped when Axl changed the angle and hit something deep inside him and suddenly his aching cock demanded full attention. He arched backwards, his hands sought out for hold and found it in Axl's hair and then Axl's hand was back around his cock and before he knew what was happening, he came. 

After he had spent himself, Slash lay still, relaxed to a point where he wasn't sure how to control his own muscles, while Axl started to grunt with each thrust. He pushed deeper now, harder and Slash let the movement rock him back and forth. Eventually the grunts turned into groans and then he felt how all tension left Axl's body while he found relief inside him. Only an instant later, he collapsed onto his chest. 

Axl gasped harshly and Slash could feel hot breath against his neck. He stroked Axl's damp hair and wrapped his arms around the sweat-slick body. Maybe they should clean up, but he didn't have enough energy left to move. He was even too exhausted to shift Axl off his chest and so they just fell asleep as they were. 

Slash awoke in the morning. The temperatures had dropped and he felt cold and sticky. They had separated during the night, Axl lay next to the mattress, curled up on the blanket. Slash lay back and thought about taking a shower. Instead he reached up and traced a finger over the old, scratched wood above his head. It took him a while to make out that it wasn't just scratches, he saw, but words, carved into the boards with a knife or something similar. They were barely legible and it took a while before he understood that it was just one word, repeated again and again over a dozen times, in big letters, small letters, block letters and cursive letters: 

_Izzy_. 


End file.
